My recipe for dealing with anger and frustration: set the kitchen

Host: The evening was loud with rain — the kind that didn’t just fall, but poured like it had something to prove. Thunder rolled somewhere distant, shaking the windows just enough to remind everyone how small their tempers really were.

Inside, a tiny apartment kitchen was alive with chaos — not from the storm, but from life. Steam rose from a pot that had long given up on simmering, dishes clattered in the sink, and the faint smell of burnt garlic hung in the air like a stubborn argument.

Jack stood by the counter, sleeves rolled up, eyes dark with frustration, trying to cook but clearly at war with everything but the food.

Jeeny leaned against the doorframe, holding a glass of wine, calm but watchful — like someone observing an emotional thunderstorm from behind glass.

The kitchen clock ticked loudly, but beside it, a small silver timer gleamed — old-fashioned, round, dignified in its simplicity.

Jeeny: “Phyllis Diller once said, ‘My recipe for dealing with anger and frustration: set the kitchen timer for twenty minutes, cry, rant, and rave, and at the sound of the bell, simmer down and go about business as usual.’”

Jack: (gritting his teeth as he stirs) “She forgot to mention burning the pasta.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s part of the emotional reduction. Adds flavor.”

Jack: “Flavor? This is a war crime.”

Jeeny: “Then stop fighting the noodles and start fighting the mood.”

Host: The rain hammered harder, but inside, warmth fought its way back into the chaos. The timer sat on the counter, ticking quietly — patient, impartial, almost smug.

Jack: “You know, Diller had it easy. Twenty minutes? Try twenty years of swallowing it down before you even admit you’re angry.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’ve been overcooking your emotions.”

Jack: (half-laughs) “So now you’re a philosopher-chef?”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone who learned that sometimes you have to let yourself boil before you can cool down.”

Host: The rain eased, shifting from rage to rhythm. The smell of garlic softened, blending with something sweeter — maybe olive oil, maybe forgiveness.

Jack: “You really believe that? That you can schedule your rage like a recipe?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Anger’s like heat — it needs control, not denial. You can’t pretend it’s not there. You just give it time and boundaries.”

Jack: “Boundaries don’t work when everything burns.”

Jeeny: “They do. You just need a timer.”

Host: She crossed the room and twisted the silver dial — twenty minutes. The sound of the mechanical tick filled the silence like a heartbeat.

Jeeny: “There. You’ve got until the bell rings to fall apart. After that, you clean up and move on.”

Jack: “What if I’m not done by then?”

Jeeny: “Then you start another round tomorrow. But tonight, twenty minutes is all the universe gets.”

Host: He stared at her — half amused, half defiant — and then, finally, something inside him cracked. He dropped the spoon, leaned against the counter, and laughed — a real, unguarded laugh that shook loose the weight from his shoulders.

Jack: “You’re ridiculous.”

Jeeny: “So was Phyllis Diller. That’s why she survived.”

Jack: “You think laughter really fixes anger?”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps you from drowning in it. Humor is the air hole in the pot — it lets the steam escape.”

Host: The rain had slowed now, turning into a steady whisper. The timer’s ticking seemed louder — each second counted, each one a reminder that emotion, too, has its own rhythm.

Jeeny: “You know what Diller was saying, Jack? That emotions aren’t enemies. They’re ingredients. Rage, grief, joy — they all belong in the stew. You just can’t let one spice ruin the flavor.”

Jack: “So, cry, rant, rave — but don’t serve it raw.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You simmer it until it’s digestible.”

Host: The timer ticked on. Jeeny poured him a glass of wine, slid it across the counter, and leaned against the sink.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how simple that advice really is? ‘Cry, rant, rave’ — it’s permission. Most people spend their lives denying themselves the right to feel.”

Jack: “Because the world punishes emotions. We’re supposed to ‘stay professional,’ ‘keep calm,’ ‘move on.’”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Diller was saying, ‘Let it out — just don’t live there.’”

Host: The soft glow from the kitchen light fell over them — two silhouettes framed by rain, wine, and unspoken honesty.

Jack: “So, she was funny because she was brave enough to feel?”

Jeeny: “She was funny because she didn’t pretend not to. Comedy isn’t denial. It’s transformation. You laugh so you can keep going.”

Jack: “Then maybe we all need a timer in our souls.”

Jeeny: “We do. Otherwise, pain never gets served — it just spoils.”

Host: The timer ticked louder now — near its end. The air felt lighter, charged not with frustration, but with acceptance.

Jack: “You know, I used to think people who cried were weak. Now I think the ones who don’t are just stuck mid-boil.”

Jeeny: “And that’s where bitterness lives — in the pot that never cools.”

Host: The timer dinged.

A small, perfect sound.

They both paused — looked at each other — and then, as if by sacred ritual, exhaled.

Jeeny smiled.

Jeeny: “There. Time’s up. Crying, ranting, raving — all done. Back to business as usual.”

Jack: (smiling back) “What if the business is forgiving yourself?”

Jeeny: “Then clock in.”

Host: The sound of laughter filled the kitchen again — soft, human, real. The rain outside had turned to mist. The storm was over.

And in that moment, Phyllis Diller’s wisdom hung in the air like the aroma of something freshly cooked — rich, healing, true:

That anger doesn’t destroy you
if you give it a container.

That grief becomes grace
when you let it run its course.

And that life’s most useful timer
isn’t for baking or boiling —
it’s for remembering that every storm,
no matter how fierce,
deserves an ending.

Host: The clock ticked on,
steady as forgiveness.
Jack smiled,
Jeeny refilled the wine,
and together they stood —
a little calmer, a little lighter,
and ready to begin again.